The Glass Mountain (20 page)

Ossie: She kept saying “More”.

Mr Nunn: Mr Ingram, did you give any thought to the consequences of this action on yourself?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr Nunn: Then why did you do as she asked?

Ossie: She was so sick …

The subject turns to the trip Ossie and Essie took to the glass mountain.

Mr Nunn: Mr Ingram, did you consider the possibility of Mrs Ellis's condition deteriorating on account of such a trip?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr Nunn: Then why did you agree to accompany her?

Ossie: She was unhappy. She wanted to go home.

Mr Nunn: Did she, at any point, state that she intended to return?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr Nunn: Did you believe her?

Ossie: I don't know.

Mr Nunn: Mr Ingram, in your opinion was Mrs Ellis returning to her home in order to die?

Mr James (springing up): Objection, Your Honour. This is pure speculation.

Judge: I'll allow it. (To the accused) You may answer the question.

Ossie: No.

Mr Nunn: Mr Ingram, did the late Esther Ellis give you any indication that one day you might inherit money?

Ossie: She said one day I'd be able to choose.

Mr Nunn: Did you know what she meant at the time?

Ossie: No.

Mr Nunn: Mr Ingram, was your friendship with the late Mrs Esther Ellis motivated by a determination to benefit financially?

Ossie: No.

Mr Nunn: Did you accompany Mrs Ellis on the said journey in the belief that such an undertaking might hasten her death.

Ossie: No.

Mr Nunn: Mr Ingram, did you administer to the late Mrs Esther Ellis that fatal dose of morphine in order to realise a legacy?

Ossie: I did not.

Mr Nunn: Thank you. That is all … That concludes the case for the defence, Your Honour.

Mr Daryl Nunn sinks into his chair. He can hardly breathe. He pushes back a sweaty wig, looks towards the chandelier and starts studying baubles …

It is now the prosecution's turn to question the accused.

Timothy James QC rises, flings back his gown and stares at the witness.

Mr James: Let's deal in facts, Mr Ingram. Two years ago did you knock down the late Mrs Esther Ellis in the street?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Did you rob her?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Did you subsequently deny this to the police?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Why did you perpetrate this cruelty upon an old lady, Mr Ingram?

Ossie: I don't know.

Mr James: Were you desperate for money?

Ossie: No.

Mr James: Did you examine the cards contained in the purse that you appropriated?

Ossie: I had to find —

Mr James: Just yes or no.

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: And did you, despite repeated orders from your gang leader to return to the city, remain in the township?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Why, Mr Ingram?'

Ossie: Because of her.

Mr James: Her being Mrs Ellis?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Did you have enough money to remain there for any period of time?

Ossie: No.

Mr James: Where did you lodge?

Ossie: At the Crisis Centre.

Mr James: Accommodation at a shelter is temporary, Mr Ingram. Did you at any time sleep rough? In parks? On benches?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Did you find that pleasant?

Judge: We don't want to focus on the obvious, do we, Mr James?

Mr James: As Your Honour pleases. Mr Ingram, you claim that you confided in Mrs Ellis, apprised her of your past, your history of lying and thieving, of drug taking and domestic abuse.

Ossie: Yes.

Counsel takes a different tack.

Mr James: Mr Ingram, why did you agree to go on this “adventure” as you put it?

Ossie: She said it'd make her happy.

Mr James: Were you aware that Mrs Ellis' condition was terminal?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Mr Ingram, an adventure of this kind costs money. One needs food, accommodation, petrol. Who paid for all of this?

Ossie: She did — Mrs Ellis.

Mr James: Mr Ingram, who was it that persuaded Mrs Ellis to purchase a (glances down) a nine hundred cc touring bike for the purpose?

Ossie: It wasn't new.

Mr James: Who, Mr Ingram?

Ossie: The man at Wheels City.

Mr James: Where is the bike now?

Ossie: She said I could keep it.

Mr James: Mr Ingram, why did you stay on in the township after your extraordinary sojourn with the late Mrs Ellis?

Ossie: She was dying.

Mr James: And upon your return were you in receipt of any allowance?

Ossie: No.

Mr James: Why then, Mr Ingram, at this very juncture did you make clear your intention to leave the gang from which your only source of income was derived?

Ossie: I wanted to.

Mr James: I put it to you that you left because you wouldn't need their money. You were going to get it from Mrs Esther Ellis —

Ossie: No.

Mr James: I put it to you that you insinuated yourself into her life for that purpose and that purpose alone and now having no money and no prospect of any money, you couldn't wait for her to die —

Mr Nunn (springing up): Your Honour! My learned friend has gone too far —

Judge: Mr James!

Mr James: I withdraw the statement, Your Honour … Mr Ingram, would you call yourself an inveterate liar?

Ossie: No.

Mr James: Did you not say repeatedly that your mother was dead?

Silence.

Mr James: Answer the question.

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: Did you not also say to Detective Inspector Bradley that you'd never been in trouble with the law?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr James: The fact is, you repeated it twice.

Silence.

Mr James: Mr Ingram, could you please tell this court why anyone, on considering your testimony, should believe a word you say? … That is all.

As counsel for the prosecution sits, crosses his legs and leans back, Mr Nunn, Counsel for the Defence uncrosses his, leans forward and rises.

Judge: Mr Nunn?

Mr Nunn: Just one final question, Your Honour … Mr Ingram, were you advised to enter the alternative plea of guilty at your arraignment?

Ossie: Yes.

Mr Nunn: Why didn't you take that advice?

Ossie: I couldn't.

Mr Nunn: Why, Mr Ingram?

Ossie: I was charged with murder —'

Mr Nunn: Yes?

Ossie: Murder's done with malice. It says so in the dictionary.

Mr Nunn: Go on.

Ossie: I had to know, since the courts and I were going to be acquainted.

Mr Nunn: And —?

Ossie: An' I wouldn't've hurt Essie —

Mr Nunn: Thank you, Mr Ingram. You may step down.

Now the two officers lead Ossie back to the dock. A low murmur starts somewhere in the press gallery and rolls along pews …

On his high-backed throne, Mr Justice Hepburn bends over papers. He stretches back and rubs his hands, stifles a yawn. And calls upon the counsel for the prosecution to sum up.

Mr James reminds the jury that they have a responsibility to society to find the accused guilty. He makes reference to the accused's background. To drug taking, to lying, to the cowardly inflicting of pain upon an elderly woman, to examples of theft, assault, to the appropriation and abuse of other people's property, to a thoroughly bad character. He refers to the irresistible evidence of the forensic laboratory, to that of Constable Brett Allen, Detective Inspector William Bradley and others. He concludes by advising the jury that the sum of the evidence could not call for anything but a guilty verdict and he asks the jury to make their decision accordingly.

During this, counsel for the defence has begun to wheeze heavily. He lifts himself painfully out of his seat. He's going for broke — he'll probably be dead in the morning anyway.

He turns and addresses the jury. He says that his learned friend must be labouring under a misconception or, with the greatest respect, must be hard of hearing. He asserts that the accused is a victim of circumstances of his childhood, of his misguided relationship with his father, of his blighted relationship with his mother. He puts it to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury that it is precisely because his client has had a chequered past that they must make a special effort to judge him not for what he has been but for what he is now and his motives behind ending the suffering of one who had offered him affection. He asks them to consider the evidence logically and dispassionately, and in doing so he has no doubt that they will arrive at a verdict of not guilty.

Outside, on the streets, people move uncertainly. The journalists have already fled. A scrum forms by the gates to the lane but the van has already gone. Should they stay? Go? They've heard of cases where the jury has been sequestered for days …

Inside his cell, Ossie stares at a pie. The smell is rich and warm. It's that cold afternoon smell when you're on the hill and stamping your feet and yelling for the Tigers to win …

He wants Daryl, wants to tell him he was right. Five years … Ya can paint a very excellent picture in five years, so good it gets in a museum or write a poem or two — even a book. There's this gaolbird the Big Man yakked on about — seven years it took him but it was a real best seller an' all …

But twenty-five — for life — for the term of ya natural life … never to be released. Forever dead … A wingless bird in an iron cage. Better a dead one. What's the life of a bird worth anyway? To the million commuters on the northern line, the western line? To anyone?

Daryl had pleaded with him an' Daryl was right …

From the square of window comes the chirrup of city swallows as they gather in an elm for the close of day.

He remembers a swallow. The little swallow who died for love of The Happy Prince. The story had made him cry.

‘ “This above all, to thine own self be true …” That's Shakespeare, Kid.'

No, it's he who was right. Is right. End of argument. An' if they lock him away forever — well, then he'll cogitate on what to do about it …

He hears footsteps. Someone's coming.

Inside the courtroom there is a knock on the door. The tipstaff crosses the room, climbs three steps and opens it. The foreman of the jury stands there.

‘We're ready,' he says.

The door closes again. Now the tipstaff moves quickly. First he rings the judge. ‘There's a verdict,' he says. Then the judge's assistant, all the parties …

The words echo into the streets, around newspaper offices to suburban back yards. There's pushing and shoving, elbowing and jostling — everyone wants a seat in the stalls.

The court rises as the judge enters. Now a hush falls, louder than church bells.

The tipstaff approaches the foreman of the jury. He takes the slip of paper on which the verdict is written, walks across the room, up the stairs and hands it to the judge. The judge reads it and hands it back to the tipstaff. Eyes follow the tipstaff as he returns it to the foreman.

Tipstaff: The accused will rise.

Ossie gets up, the two officers with him. He stands straight and tall, his hands at his side.

Judge: Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?

Foreman: We have, Your Honour.

Judge: How do you find the accused? Guilty or not guilty?

Foreman: We find the accused, Austin Eric Ingram, not guilty of murder but guilty of manslaughter.

There's a sudden and audible intake of breath.

Judge's associate: Prisoner at the Bar, you have been found guilty of the crime of manslaughter and have acknowledged prior conviction. Have you anything to say or do you know why sentence of the court should not be passed against you?

Silence.

Judge: Austin Eric Ingram, I sentence you to a period of five years, with a minimum of three, to be served at Her Majesty's pleasure in a correctional facility to be nominated — eighteen months of which have already been discharged while awaiting trial.

The judge rises. Everyone rises. Sound rises.

Daryl Nunn, junior barrister rises, turns to his client and salutes with his fist.

PART 4

DELIVERANCE

“The air of the narrow cell took on a rosy tinge; he began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry and poetry and deeds still to be done …”

The Wind in the Willows
Kenneth Grahame

1

A network of chicken coops criss-cross a wasteland. Over it the wind sweeps, turns dust to dust. Neither branch nor bush as far as the eye can see to staunch its path, its mournful wail.

On such a day a car veers left and an unbroken ribbon of road unwinds beneath its wheels. It gets closer. It's not a chicken coop at all but a human coop. The low grey complex with its iron-barred eyes is a maximum security gaol, the living quarters of 330 male convicts. Circling it is a high inner wall. The electrified outer one has lights, like giant commas, that at night sweep over the cells and flood the compound, once called the exercise yard.

The car gears down to twenty ks and stops at the top of the drive, at the sign ‘Chirnside Prison'.

It crawls past warnings in English, Greek, Italian, Turkish, Mandarin, Indonesian, Vietnamese: ‘No unauthorised person beyond this point'.

The entrance is barred, the holding centre also. The only access is a small green door marked Reception. This could be a repository for the dead, a corpse coop. It's that lifeless.

The senior constable rolls his window up and dust settles. He steps into the gale, jams on his hat and strides towards the green door.

Dan O'Donnell doesn't have to sign in. They know him here. He can pass Go, the interrogation, the strip search.

Inside, anxious eyes scrabble for admission, for the required points. One hundred, like in a bank. No passport, cheque book, driver's license, insurance card and you're back in the car park. And husband, son, brother, lover is forgotten again …

Dan leans over the counter, smiles into grey eyes. A prison officer picks up a phone and dials an extension.

Nearby a woman who might be young, is crying. A child with limp hair and a runny nose clings to her jeans.

‘It's taken me all day to get here …'

But somebody has lost their privileges.

Now a door at the side opens and a man in blue enters. All prison officers wear blue. No prisoner does. For prisoners, blue is verboten, down to a handkerchief.

‘Missed you last time you were here,' he says.

‘Hi, Bob.'

‘Got time for a cuppa?'

‘Why not.'

Prison Officer Crow is broad and muscly, with keen eyes and a quick smile. He leads the way into a white room containing a desk, two chairs and a bubbling urn.

Dan pulls up a chair.

‘Guess you've come to see Ossie. You heard about his marks?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Only one subject to go. Then he can start a degree.'

‘Degree?'

‘We've got TAFE courses running. University —'

Dan grins. ‘Ossie with a degree …'

‘Began when he was in remand.'

‘I know.'

‘He's always reading in his cell or in the library. Always looking up words.'

‘Still on his own?'

‘Most are on their own, Dan. He does cleaning and kitchen detail — same as the rest. It's just that he's — well, he's a bit of a loner, doesn't take sides. Keeps him out of trouble …'

Dan pauses, contemplates the silent urn. ‘And no one's ever — with the sex and drugs and stuff —'

‘Probably tried it on but now they just treat him as a bit of a weirdo. A weirdo that's made something of an impression though.'

‘How come?'

‘Well, when one of the hardest cases in the place lines up to be read to, there's no sounding off, I can promise you.'

‘He reads to them?'

‘In the library. Mostly from The Wind in the Willows.' Officer Crow flicks a tea bag into a bin. ‘I'm Mole.'

‘You're what?'

‘And he's right. I've always been a sort of home person. We're all there. Found myself the other day calling the Gov. King Stoat …'

‘The governor!'

‘You can imagine, too, that there's a fair bunch of weasels around — and you don't get a medal for working out who they are. Yeah,' muses Bob Crow, ‘when you come to think about it, in three months the kid's made quite an impression.' He looks at his watch. ‘They'll be bringing him down now,' he says. ‘Come on, I'll walk with you.'

They cut across a corridor to the visiting rooms. Here, at laminex tables, people collect in twos and threes.

Dan makes for a spare table. He nods to the officer standing guard at his left and looks around. He observes the touch on the arm, the pat on the shoulder, the hand held or shaken. No kissing though. And passing contraband is made more difficult by the neck to ankle overalls with nothing but a zip up the back that all prisoners wear at visiting time. Uniformly mummified and unkissable.

Dan watches men, women and little kids acting out their particular life dramas. Their faces, their gestures, describe the script …

Suddenly the door at the back opens and he's there. Tall and straight, curls cropped to his head. Smiling eyes and a shake of the hand.

‘You don't look too bad, Ossie.'

‘You look pretty excellent yourself, Senior Constable.'

‘You heard?'

‘She's proud, Dan.' Ossie gives a quick glance around the room, then focuses on his visitor. ‘So, what are you doing back in the Big Smoke?'

‘Bloody two-day conference, boring as shit. They like to tell you what you already know and how to do what you've been doing. At the moment, they're discussing alternatives to hat bands. Anyway, Ossie, how about you! All As and Bs … You know who would've been proud.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Sherry's proud, real proud.'

‘I got a card.'

Dan leans closer. ‘Do they read your letters and stuff?'

‘They give the pages a bit of a shake then put them back in the envelope.'

‘And you're eating and sleeping okay?'

‘It's cool.'

‘Sherry worries.'

‘How is she?'

‘Great. Starts part-time next month.'

‘Gee, Dan, you a dad.'

‘Yeah.'

Ossie pauses. ‘She'd be the sort of mum a kid'd kill for.' He grins. ‘Like a few around here've done.'

Dan grins back, pulls his chair closer. ‘Actually, she'd like you to be godfather. I would too.'

Ossie is silent.

‘Sheralyn reckoned you'd be real proud.'

‘Dan, 'course I'm proud. What you've said is beautiful —'

‘You'd be real good with her, Sherry said.'

‘Her?'

‘It's a girl.'

Ossie looks down. ‘A gaolbird for a moral guardian is what you might call a very uncustomary practice, Dan.'

Dan leans forward. ‘Ossie, we've all got baggage. Some got more, some got less, and some got degrees as well. And not even a senior constable's got one of those … And Ossie, Sheralyn knows about morals and all 'cos she knows people. And she wants you … By the time you get out the baby will be twelve months, which is a perfect time for a christening.'

Ossie smiles. ‘I bet they're real perky up at the house.'

‘Very.'

‘How's everyone?'

‘Well, Max died —'

‘Yeah, Sheralyn wrote me.'

‘And Horace has had a second stroke.'

‘Who's looking after Henry?'

‘Horace still.'

‘He's okay?

‘He's okay.'

‘An' the Major?'

‘The Major's okay.'

Ossie pauses. ‘An' Dan, Essie's little garden —?'

‘Like you left it. They wouldn't let Essie's garden go.'

‘Sheralyn sent me a photo but that was way back.'

‘Can you put photos up?'

‘It's on my pin board with yer wedding ones.'

‘You've got a pin board?'

‘Got TV, video, own shower, a very excellent desk. Not every resident's got a board, but I have, for notes an' exam timetables an' all … Some of the officers are real charitable, Dan.'

‘And what you going to do now, Ossie? When this is over?'

‘Journalism.'

‘Journalism!'

Ossie leans forward, his eyes intense, unblinking. ‘You know, Dan, Essie told me that when she was little she'd go up to her glass mountain an' watch the ships sailing off to places with strange-sounding names. Marathon, Montevideo, Casablanca. She never went to any of the places — only saw them in her head. But I will.'

Dan laughs. ‘You don't go by boat now, Ossie.'

‘Boat, plane, doesn't matter as long as I get there.' Ossie leans back. ‘I'm a wayfarer, Dan, like in
The Wind in the Willows.
But I'm not Mole — Essie was wrong — I'm Ratty. It's Ratty who wants to find out what's around the next bend in the river … I'm Ratty an' a bit of Toad too. Bit like my dad. 'Cept he just talked about it, though he knew things. He could name every capital city in the world, every river, where it began, ended, what it flowed through … See, Dan, if I was a journalist I'd be able to tell about these places, to everyone, to kids who don't see past their back fence …'

‘You would.'

‘An' if I was a good one, some big-time paper would pay me for doing it.'

Dan rubs his chin. ‘You know, Ossie,' he says, ‘a small time spent at the government's pleasure is perhaps not always a bad thing.'

‘There are occasions when we can be very grateful to the judicial system, Dan. There's considerable time to examine a life when you're alone in a cell.'

At the next table somebody has got up to leave. The policeman looks around. On the back wall, the hands of the clock point to the hour. ‘Ossie,' he says, ‘I gotta get going. I'm a group leader at the next session.'

He picks up his hat. ‘So, what do you say? Will you be her godfather?'

‘Indubitably.'

‘I guess that means yes.'

Ossie puts out his hand. ‘Thanks, Dan. An' thanks for coming.'

Dan stands, holds tight the hand. ‘Ossie,' he says, ‘you've gotta realise what you've done. You've got people thinking. … Thinking for themselves instead of other people doing it for them and being honest about what they come up with … Some questions are just too hard, Ossie, for people to work at, 'cos there's not necessarily a right and a wrong, generally speaking. It's a case for particulars, if you know what I mean, but it's a case too that can jump up right there on your doorstep and maybe you might be regretting what you do about it and maybe you mightn't. But at least you've thought about it and followed your own conscience … I reckon if everybody everywhere were free to choose about their own personal living and dying — even if all the laws of the land were telling them it was wrong — then the world would be a better place and a happier one too … I'm proud of you. Everybody who knows you is proud of you.

Senior Constable O'Donnell stops and grins. ‘Ossie,' he says, ‘you're a fuckin' hero.'